Moriarty Goes Shopping
by illbeyourhimitsu
Summary: Obviously, Moriarty does his own shopping. Because hey, the ordinary people are so lovely to watch, and he might just run into someone he knows. One-shot, sort of pre-slash Moriarty/Moran, and Johnlock if you squint.


Hey, guys! I realise that I've been inactive for the longest fucking time, and I apologise, but hey, you know those 'holy-fuck-I-can't-write' moments? I have that like twice a month and it lasts like two weeks ha ha ha so yeah.

This was inspired by a conversation between my friend and I when we were once discussing how Sherlock should have bonus episodes of John and Sherlock in their spare time, but also Moriarty. MORIARTEA

I don't own these fictional characters, obviously.

Also, I guess this is sort of pre-slash?

* * *

However much power Moriarty has, he has to do his own shopping. He's the only one who can pick out the best brands, anyway. While the normal person goes for the cheapest brand, Moriarty will have quality over quantity, thank you very much. His "job" allows him to be loose with his money. Whatever he wants, material-wise, he gets. The supermarket is surprisingly a enjoyable place for him to be. Ordinary people are quite funny.

Today, he doesn't need much. Moriarty needs to stock up on tea. Usually, he orders his tea from a lovely little shop from Wokingham, but he was curious. So very curious. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he's getting his tea from the same quaint store that Moriarty knows a certain doctor shops there too. Nothing.

So he's standing in front of the fine selection of teas and finding that he simply can't decide. Moriarty grins. He'll just take them all. He's got time for an experiment or ten. Begrudgingly, he shoves the Lipton behind all the others. Definitely not that one. Moriarty heads to the front of the store and finds a basket to gather all his tea choices, but something makes him stop just as he's about to place the items in his basket. . A very lovely thing indeed.

"Sherlock, you can'tleave all the freezer doors open!"

"And why not? It's just an experiment, John."

"You're bothering the employers!"

"It's not my fault they haven't got magnetised doors."

"Yes, but it _will _be your fault if all the food goes bad!"

"John, frozen dinners will hardly become expired from being left to the average room temperature for a few minutes."

Moriarty smiles at their bickering – like an old married couple – and waits for them to notice him. That'll be grand. However, he's not wearing his wonderful Westwood; perhaps it'll take a moment for the consulting detective to detect him.

"Hi!" He finally shouts down the aisle, announcing himself out of boredom. The couple were arguing over the best brand of coffee at the end of the aisle, and taking much longer than Moriarty had patience for.

Immediately, John steps slightly in front of Sherlock, like some kind of protective dog, Moriarty thinks. John's mouth sets into a stiff line and his brow furrows. His arm raises somewhat, shielding Sherlock, unnoticeably to those who don't observe, but Moriarty sees it. He tilts his head and raises his left hand to wiggle his fingers at them.

"Sherlock…" John hisses.

"Relax, John. He's not here to bother us."

"He's a psychopath, Sherlock. Do you really think he's going to just let us go on our merry way after seeing you, his mortal enemy?" John says the last words with a hint of sarcasm, but his serious expression doesn't change.

"I can hardly kill you with tea, can I?" Moriarty smiles, eyebrows raising.

"I don't doubt you'd find a way." John says, gravely.

Moriarty snorts and Sherlock snickers at the same time. "Moriartea" Pops into his mind. Completely silly, but Moriarty's never had anything against puns. Simple as they are.

"I'll text you when I do." Moriarty assures, waving a box of tea. It's Lipton, he realises with a frown. An employee must have put it back in its proper place while he was gone. "Oh, and don't have the Lipton."

"What?" John blinks, "Why? What've you done to it?"

"Nothing. Yet."

Sherlock takes a quick step past John, leaving him a bit shocked.

"Sherlock…you can't – it's Moriarty, for God's sake!"

"He's not wearing the suit."

"What?"

"He only does his business when he's wearing that suit of his. The Westwood, remember?" Sherlock says, touching a box of Earl Grey. "John, this is your favourite, isn't it?" He asks, taking the box off the shelf.

Moriarty smirks at the two of them, rather amused by Sherlock's theory. John hurries to catch up with Sherlock, keeping a sharp eye on Moriarty as they pass him. Idly watching them go by, he finds himself bored once more. He sighs to himself and (finally) begins piling the boxes of teas into his basket and decides to shop a bit longer, barely having been here long enough.

_Ooh, apples. _Moriarty thinks, as he reaches the fruit and vegetable section, nabbing a red apple off the top of the pile. The fruit section has been ridiculously organised, Moriarty grimaces, spotting all the bruises; the contaminated, and soon-to-be rotten fruit. The employers soon become anxious by Moriarty's glares of disappointment, barely daring to lock eyes with him. Watching them anxiously flicker their eyes to the ground unexpectedly brightens his spirits, and he grins before taking a bite into 'his' apple. At this ordinary store, he can barely bother hiding his…quirky personality.

Unsurprisingly the fruit and vegetable section bores him quickly, like most things, and he proceeds to the next aisle. Tea is still the only item in his basket. Momentarily, he wonders if Moran would like a souvenir from this little trip. He doubts Moran has the time to go shopping, either. Turning the corner, Moriarty stumbles across the lovely pair. And decides to hide behind the corner. He's definitely not spying. Why would he do that?

"I want this, John."

"No, Sherlock, it's unhealthy." John sounds exasperated, as though he's been through this multiple times already.

"I don't want to _eat _it, I want it for an experiment."

John turns to Sherlock, and Moriarty can see his basket's already full of junk.

"I am putting my foot down, Sherlock. You do enough experiments as it is. You do not need another twenty!" He says, sounding like a cross father. Or a cross wife.

After a bit more bickering, they walk further down the aisle, John having 'won' the argument, and they journey on. Moriarty sees Sherlock slip a few items inside his jacket pocket, and tuts.

"You naughty boy, Sherlock."

It's obvious that John usually does his shopping alone. Seeing them shop together must be a rare treat indeed. But they won't act natural with him near, he thinks. He'll have to hide. So, discreetly, he follows them, hiding behind shelves, trolleys, old people, and at one point, a child.

"'Scuse me? What are you doin'?" The little kid says, a boy about eight.

Moriarty gets up as the pair move away, and he shoos the kid away. "Go away."

"You hid behind me!"

"You've done all you're for now, be on your way."

"You're weird, old man…"

"I will skin you alive." Moriarty threatens, widening his eyes at the boy and smiling widely.

"Mummy!" The boy cries.

"Hey, hey, hey," Moriarty hushes, watching out for Sherlock, "Let's not let _everyone _know I'm here, shall we?"

The kid has disappeared, and so has Sherlock.

Damn. But he's not bothered. It takes but a skip and a jump to find them again. It's simple, really.

This one trip to the supermarket is becoming more beneficiary than he thought it would be. Moriarty can see John's habits in his walk, and his emotions in his speech, and Sherlock's little looks. Sherlock looks at John like some kind of gem. Like he's never appreciated a quality microscope the way he appreciates John. If he weren't in the middle of a supermarket surrounded by ordinary people, why, Moriarty knows he'd cry from laughter. Doesn't Sherlock know? He should know what a weakness that is. As much as Sherlock will say he doesn't understand emotions, he can't help _feeling _them. And after so long of being denied the right to, John is the cure to Sherlock's loneliness.

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, you're making a mistake_, Moriarty thinks,_ I could break your heart with one person's death. That is so silly. So reckless. So…stupid. _

Moriarty sees them and his head throbs. What…is it? Why let yourself have an Achilles' heel? Why did Sherlock ever let that doctor nest in his heart?

Moriarty grimaces and furrows his brow.

He can understand people. Ordinary people. So easy to manipulate. He can even become one if he wants. It drives him mad, it really does, Sherlock.

Sherlock and John have finished and walk towards the counter, still bickering. Moriarty proceeds to the one opposite theirs and places his numerous boxes of tea on the conveyor belt; still the only items he wanted to buy.

"Sherlock, what's this?" John asks, as Sherlock presents the items hidden in his coat.

"Oh, come now, pay up." Sherlock says resolutely.

Then Moriarty has to pay for his tea, and misses however their conversation ends. The tea is not-so-carefully packed in a reusable bag and given to him by a young woman with a bubbly smile.

Sherlock and John are trying to hail a cab, John occasionally sneaking a glance at Moriarty, trying to watch his action. Oh please, as if he would actually do something so out in the open – well, not when he's in the same vicinity. That would be much too sloppy for his taste, even if it did make things even a little bit more…interesting.

A shiny black cab pulls up where John and Sherlock stand. John quickly gets in, and ushers Sherlock to do the same. John having forgotten them in his anxiety about Moriarty, Sherlock lingers a bit to take their shopping bags and place them inside the cab too. John should be grateful for that, Moriarty thinks. As if Sherlock has ever once stopped to do an act of kindness.

And then the cab drives off, leaving Moriarty alone in the street. Alone, he begins his walk home. Though he doesn't really have a home; he rents an apartment here and there, but none of them are like home to him. He has not had a home since he was ten, when his mother still lived. The closest one to this store is a ten minute walk. Ten minutes is nothing to him, with all the thoughts in his head, and it is just a moment before he is at his apartment.

Since he goes around wherever he likes doing his business, Moriarty's got quite a few apartments. He finds hotels horribly dull. This apartment is a small, dull place, with just one bedroom. There is little furniture at all. A small round table and a single chair is all that resides in the front room. That's all that's necessary for Moriarty. He used to have a telly, too but that turned out to be all too inconvenient. See, the only thing that Moriarty finds intriguing enough to waste his time with is on the news of cases that he knows Sherlock has taken. And, occasionally, he'll watch news of his own work. What can he say; he likes to admire his handiwork. But it's always Sherlock he wants to watch. Sometimes he'll smirk if Sherlock hasn't solved a case yet, and sometimes he'll have to shout at the screen.

"I solved that much quicker than you!" He'll taunt at the screen-Sherlock, 'MUCH QUICKER." And then a mug or a spoon will go flying across the room and smash into the screen with as much force that Moriarty can muster. Sherlock's face, his glorious eyes and his beautifully carved cheekbones will crack and he'll have to call the repairmen. If he wanted to, Moriarty could fix it himself, but then he'd have to buy all the essential things and what-have-you; and it's not really as if he owns a screwdriver. So he calls the repairmen instead, seeing as it's much quicker, and Moriarty's got things to do and fixing a screen isn't one of them. After a while the employers began to give him strange looks so he settled for a radio instead. It's a little square radio that's a bit old fashioned, not that Moriarty minds. He likes its normalcy. Makes him feel like 'Jim.' That never lasts long, not even on his own.

The most noticeable thing in Moriarty's apartment is a cut out picture of Sherlock, the one with the deerstalker from the newspaper, stuck to the wall by a knife. It's also Moriarty's favourite thing in his apartment. He's added a heart-shaped post-it note with three letters written on it.

Today he finally gets to fill his cabinets with something: tea. Tea that he only acquired via stalking a man who hates him. It doesn't brighten his day as much as you'd think. Moriarty knows that the only excitement in his life is a man who will forever despise him. There's suddenly a complete silence in his so very empty apartment. And then that silence is broken with a short chime. Moriarty checks his phone and a text from Moran informs him of work to be done.

That's how most of his work begins: a text from Moran. The latter is not a usual occurrence. Moriarty just doesn't like many people having his number. He'd get far too many potential clients and less actual work. Moriarty prefers Moran to go through what is wasted time for him.

Moriarty thinks back to his encounter in the store. Is Sherlock's life better now he has a companion? A friend? Is it really better? He compares himself and Moran to John and Sherlock. Once, Moriarty has thought that he and Sherlock were alike. But with John, Sherlock is not the same as the stories Moriarty was told of him. Moriarty and Moran are not the same as Holmes and Watson. Yet…

_Moran, how do you like your tea?_

_Why?_

_I went shopping._


End file.
